“Die!”

Backing away, Serge hurls a telekinetic assault. A sphere of Prana, no larger than a tennis ball, erupts in the air. Thanks to the Jamba fractal, I sense the intricate, lightning-fast dance of energy. With a slight tilt of my head, I dodge the explosive burst. The sound of a splintering net reverberates behind me, accompanied by a gasp from the astonished crowd.

“Beat him up!” he shouts to his minions shouts, jumping up. “All together!”

“Hey, that’s against the rules,” the referee interjects, getting in the way of the guys rushing into the ring. They simply dodge him.

“Get him!” Serge shouts as he darts around the arena, his voice strained. “Beat him up!”

“How dare you?” the referee protests.

“Don’t stop them,” Lana’s cold voice cuts through the air. “Let them fight as they wish.”

“But...”

“On my authority.”

“Uh... fine.”

Damn you, Lana. Why? This must be personal.

When I finally catch up to the runner, I unleash a kick to his torso that sends him sprawling. Immediately, three his minions in mental armor swarm me from all sides. How naive. This actually makes it easier for me — having a solid surface to work with will help me take them down faster. No need to roll them around like piglets on a soft mat. Also, I won’t have to break my fingers again. That hurts like hell, even if they heal instantly.

The guy with an earring makes the first move, lunging straight at me. Nimbly dodging, I use the blond as a human shield. They collide and stumble in a confused heap. Seizing the moment of confusion, I grab both of their heads and smash their foreheads together. Bam! And again, bam!

As I toss the disoriented duo aside, the blue-haired guy comes at me with a barrage of blows. Dodging and weaving, I evade his attacks. One of the fallen enemies begins to rise, trying to flank me and strike from behind. But it’s too late — I’m behind Mr. Blue Hair. With an elbow lock around his neck, I execute a throw that sends his blue crown crashing into the face of the still-recovering guy with the earring. Both fall to the ground, incapacitated.

“What the hell!” the blond snarls, visibly frustrated. “How do we get him?”

“Hold him steady, Josh!” Serge yells from the other end of the arena. He would have run further if the net hadn’t stopped him. I raise an eyebrow. Is he still on his feet? Tough guy, if a bit cowardly.

From his direction, a flickering shape flies toward me. Well, it appears as flickering to me: to anyone else, it would be invisible. I can tell its energy pattern is different from telekinesis. Before I can evade, the blond slams me against the net with forceful sweeps of his arms.

All at once, my vision clouds over with a murky haze. I'm seized by vertigo; my orientation spins out of control, and up becomes down and vice versa. I mentally kick myself for not accounting for psychic traps; it’s within the realm of any Warrior’s capabilities.

I grope for the blond’s shoulder, but my hand closes around empty air. My spatial bearings are completely scrambled. I can’t distinguish between friend and foe, or even discern the direction from which an attack might come.

“Hit him, quick!” I hear Serge’s shout. “While the mental trap is still active.”

Things just keep getting more interesting. The blond aims for my jaw and I instinctively jerk my head to the side. Ouch! Wrong way. The mental armor grazes my face as it passes. My lips burst, and blood splatters. To avoid revealing the fractal of Gib to everyone watching, I deliberately hold it back. The regeneration slows down, leaving my face painted with my own blood. The blond isn’t satisfied: his clenched fists suggest he wants to see more color splashed across my face. More red.

Miraculously, I dodge another of his sweeping blows. Fumbling for a moment, my hand finds his shoulder, and I grab the joint. I yank it down, or maybe up, it’s hard to tell with my senses jumbled. At the same time, I pull his supporting leg out from under him. With a resounding thud, the blond crashes into the conveniently positioned blue-haired guy. Both are sent flying somewhere toward the ceiling, which — in my current state — seems indistinguishable from the floor.

“What are you doing, you bastards? He’s practically blind!” Serge instructs his friends.

Staggering like a drunken master, I navigate the arena, trying to locate the screamer by his shrieks.

“Go back! Back!” Victoria whispers to me.

I obediently follow.

“No, not to the right! Go back!’

Damn it! Since I’ve already moved to the right, I take a cautious step to my ‘right’, hoping it will be her ‘back.’

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Do you hear me?” she huffs, clearly annoyed. “Back doesn’t mean forward! You’ll never be my chauffeur.’

“I don’t particularly want to be,” I reply through bloodied lips.

Why am I trying so hard? Is it for some contrived honor conjured up by self-important nobles? People’s lives are what’s really worth fighting for. Everything else is trifles. Screw their duels! I spit on them all and just step on the ceiling. I’ll leave this chaotic situation through the roof, like Peter Pan.

“There you go. You can do it if you try,” Victoria chimes in again. “Just keep moving like that.”

I feel like I’ve been walking forever, surrounded by the same net, bumped by Boar’s head. What is this bloody maze?

The sound of footsteps signals the approach of two figures. According to my eyes, the guy with the earring and his blue-haired companion are about nine feet away. My ears, however, suggest they’re within arm’s reach. Trusting my ears, I aim low, knocking one off his feet and taking the other down with a flying tackle. I let a light punch land on my cheek, drawing blood. Again, I hold back the healing. With quick throws, I slam the guys into each other until the blue-haired’s armor gives way. A hook to the chin knocks him unconscious.

Almost immediately, the earring guy takes a breather, his armor giving way for a moment. I take advantage of his break to kick him in the face. If I hadn’t stopped myself, I might have killed him. But instead… damn it! My toe gets caught in the net. Ahhh! My broken little finger heals instantly. I turn around quickly. Where are you, bastard? After a few fruitless kicks, I hit the foe. Taking advantage of his still disabled armor, I knock him out.

The show goes on. I feel like Uncle Bob staggering through town after five pints. As a child, I used to marvel at his drunken swagger: he could easily cross a motorway without getting hit. I wonder if he exists in this world? If yes, I should look for him.

Strangely, the blond is nowhere in sight. Perhaps he has run away? Lucky him, I don’t even know the way out of this spinning carnival. Ah, there he is, right under my feet, not even flinching. He must be unconscious.

Suddenly my dizziness lifts, and Serge appears before my eyes. Is he trembling with fear or the excitement of battle?

“What a lucky meeting!” I rub my hands together in anticipation.

“I surrender! I surrender!” he shouts. Well, that answers my earlier question.

“I don’t trust you. Remove your armor,” I order.

He hesitates, but finally removes his mental armor. What a fool. A spinning kick and the much-vaunted warrior is down, his jaw dislocated and consciousness fading.

“Rule violation,” the referee suddenly shouts. “Your opponent has tapped out. The victory does not count.”

The entire arena erupts in angry murmurs for me. “Shut up, Snow White’s doormat! You let a four-on-one slide, and now you’re preaching fairness?”

“Go back to your cave where you’ve been sleeping all the fight!”

“I bet he’s been hiding under Snow White’s skirt!”

The atmosphere becomes electric, the indignation of the crowd pulsing through the room.

The roar of collective laughter reverberates up to the vaulted ceilings, but it appears that Lana couldn’t care less about the crowd’s uproar. Her narrowed eyes are locked onto me, unblinking. I’m quite the sight to behold at the moment — bruised lips, a cut slicing across half my face, and dark contusions on my cheeks. More than enough for a sadist like her to admire. The crucial thing now is to keep the fractal of Gib in check, or our resident beauty might just lose her cool.

“Hey, Demont... No, hey, Imp,” someone shouts. “Why don't you knock this wimp out while you’re at it? We won’t tell a soul, noble’s honor!”

“Go, Imp!”

“Imp! Imp! Imp!”

The referee turns pale and even steps back behind the medics, who are busy loading Serge onto a stretcher.

“The hell with him.” I spit out a clot of blood and leave the arena.

My classmates surround me. Their usually snobbish faces are now smiling, and they’re all slapping me on the back. I limp, feigning pain and clutching my side. The students sigh in sympathy.

“Fighting without armor? Your chest must be completely bruised!”

“And his kidneys must be shot! Did you see how much blood he coughed up?”

“Yet he defeated the Warrior and four Disciples? He’s no imp, he’s a real devil!”

“Yes! Devil!”

“Devil! Devil! Devil! Devil!”

The young aristocrats around me are cheering. They don't seem to care about the money they've lost on bets. And they've conveniently forgotten that I'm a commoner. It turns out that it is easy to gain the crowd’s recognition; all you have to do is win.

I even enjoy their chants. Devil? Even though I spent my life battling demonic creatures, I like this new nickname. It’s like it gives me permission to use any means, fair or foul, to protect my loved ones and remain victorious. To remain the champion.

“Arthur!” Alice grabs my arm. “I’ll help you walk. And I won’t leave your side for the rest of the day.”

“I appreciate the offer, Princess, but what will people think if you’re alone in my room with me?”

“Your room? You must go to the Academy’s healer immediately. She’ll treat your wounds with Prana.”

Well, this is tricky. If only I really had wounds... No, I can’t reveal that I’m fine. I have to get rid of Alice... Wait, did she cry? I touch her face with my fingers, wiping a warm wet line from her cold cheek.

“Just a tear? Am I worth so little?”

“The Morars are taught to control their emotions from a young age,” she says, not taking her eyes off me. “We are trained to control ourselves.”

“Then what’s with this tear?”

She silently touches the corner of my split lip, moisture glistening on her long lashes — a cascade of impending tears.

“Even the strongest can be weak.”

Now she bursts into tears. I hug Alice tightly, not caring about Eugene. As he’s demonstrated today, he can’t protect her, but I can. So he should back off.

“I really need to see the healer,” I say, stroking her hair.

“Does anything hurt?” she asks quickly.

“No, on the contrary — a wonderful girl is crying because of me and I want to smile, but these damn bruised lips won’t let me,” I say, pointing to my bleeding mouth.

She nudges me gently in the side.

“Do you really smile when a girl cries because of you? You’re heartless!”

Alice bites her lip and smiles though the tears. I enjoy her present for a moment before turning serious.

“Princess, there’s something I have to do before I see the healer. I can’t take you with me, I’m sorry.”

“But why?”

I don’t want to lie, especially to the one person who stood up for me.

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. It’s my secret,” I let her go, caressing the contours of her face as a parting gesture before simply walking away.

Time is of the essence. I’ve been holding back the healing fractal for too long. At any moment it could heal my bruises, and I can’t have that happening in front of the crowd.

“Wait,” Alice says quietly behind me. I hear her, but I don’t stop.